


Made For Me and You

by MacksDramaticShenanigans



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cooking, Dancing, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Post-Armaggedidn't, Romantic Fluff, Sappy, Slow Dancing, Songfic, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 03:33:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20146924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MacksDramaticShenanigans/pseuds/MacksDramaticShenanigans
Summary: "Dance with me, angel,” Crowley requests, twisting his hand in Aziraphale’s so that he’s holding it the proper way one would hold their dance partner’s hand.“Oh, my dear, but you know angels can’t dance,” Aziraphale protests, though he hasn’t moved out of Crowley’s space or let go of his hand.“Ah, come on, you know I don’t care about that,” Crowley says. “Besides, it’s not as though demons are notoriouslygooddancers, either. Just one dance, come on,” he insists. “Please.”A small chuckle bubbles past Aziraphale’s lips. “Please?” He repeats, amusement coloring his tone. “Well, since you asked sonicely,” he teases before lining himself up in front of Crowley, the picture of a perfect dance partner.





	Made For Me and You

**Author's Note:**

> Hi hi hiii! Guess who’s back with a second good omens fic??? ME! 
> 
> Thought I’d mess around and write something fluffier this time! And boy, did I go all in on the fluff, if I do say so myself haha.
> 
> Alsooo, I signed up for the Good Omens Big Bang!! So stay tuned for that fic to come in a few months!! I have several ideas for it already and I have no clue which to pick yet. But I want to eventually write them all so that means I definitely have more GO fics in the works!! 
> 
> Thank you to VarientLoki and the loml Caroline for reading this over and making sure it wasn’t a total disaster haha. I appreciate you both so much!
> 
> This fic was entirely inspired by the song [L.O.V.E.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JErVP6xLZwg) by Nat King Cole, so I’m sure it comes as no surprise that the title comes from the song. (Definitely suggest you take a listen to it while you read, especially towards the end!)
> 
> Now, without further ado, please enjoy!!

In the time following Armaggedidn’t, not much has actually changed.

Aziraphale still has his bookshop, which continues to open and close at odd hours and be just uncomfortable enough to drive customers away before they can make a purchase. Crowley still has his beloved Bentley, which hasn’t ceased to change every tape left longer than a fortnight into Queen’s Greatest Hits. And together, the two of them still enjoy each other’s company, going out for lunches and dinners, and the occasional breakfast, should Crowley actually rise that early.

There are, however, a few things that  _ did  _ change. Two, to be exact.

The first is that neither Crowley nor Aziraphale report to their respective head offices anymore. In fact, they don’t even concern themselves with the silly Heaven and Hell business; they are well and truly on their own side— though, it can be debated that this has always been a bit of the case. It’s just in more of an official capacity now.

The second change that can be observed is that when before there had always been a reason for their meetings, now, there’s no need for an excuse for Crowley and Aziraphale to see each other. No more popping by for a visit under the guise of being in the area for a blessing or a temptation; no more constructing intricate rituals to allow for their paths to cross. Now, it isn’t often you’ll find Crowley without Aziraphale or Aziraphale without Crowley. The two of them together, just because they want to be. 

This, too, isn’t exactly a drastic change, but it is just enough of one to be worth mentioning.

Since The-Little-Armageddon-That-Couldn’t, it’s not uncommon to find Crowley in Aziraphale’s bookshop. In fact, during the day it’s incredibly likely that that’s exactly where he’ll be. Especially if Aziraphale is there.

Today is no different.

Currently, Crowley is lounging comfortably across one of the many overstuffed armchairs Aziraphale has strewn about the shop. His legs hang over the side, and he’s got his feet kicked up onto the only empty corner of an otherwise cluttered little side table, crossed at the ankles.

There’s a book in his hand, one he’d randomly plucked from one of the shelves (which earned him a stern look from Aziraphale and the warning to “put that back where you found it when you’re finished, my dear,”) but Crowley couldn’t tell you what it’s called. It’s not like he actually paid attention to the cover when he grabbed it.

He’s not reading it either, not really. Just aimlessly flipping through the pages, stopping every so often to pick up a few strings of prose here and there that catch his eye.

The small bell above the front door hasn’t rung once in the few hours Crowley’s been here, and he isn’t sure if that’s because Aziraphale’s built himself up a bit of a reputation or if he’s simply closed the shop completely. No matter which, it’s been nice, having some peace and quiet.

Crowley also doesn’t know where Aziraphale has disappeared to; he knows he’s still in the shop somewhere, though, amongst the shelves and stacks of books. He’s probably buried nose-deep in one of his many precious first-editions.

Judging by the slight rustling sound Crowley can hear coming from behind a particularly tall stack of books in the corner, he’d guess Aziraphale is there. 

Either that, or he’s got a rat.

Crowley turns another page in the book, drags his eyes down it without actually reading anything, then, deciding he’s grown bored, promptly closes the book with a snap.

“Angel,” he calls out, loud enough that he’ll hopefully snag Aziraphale’s attention, wherever he is. He tips his head back so it hangs off the other end of the armchair. “I’m feeling a bit peckish, what do you say we nip out for a bite to eat somewhere nice?”

Aziraphale’s head suddenly pops out from behind the stack of books a few feet away. It startles Crowley even though that’s exactly where he suspected Aziraphale would be. 

A warm smile blossoms over Aziraphale’s face, and he reaches up to push the tiny round glasses up the bridge of his nose, where they’re perched. “Oh, lovely idea, my dear,” he starts, moving out from behind the books completely. “I have been wanting to try that Hungarian place around the corner.” He pauses for a moment, as though contemplating, then he lights up. “Though, I do have another idea,” he continues. “One I think you’ll like much better, actually.” A rather mischievous curve takes to his lips.

Crowley tilts his head and lifts a single eyebrow Aziraphale’s way. “Do you now?” He questions, interest thoroughly piqued.

Aziraphale nods. “Oh yes,” he says. Then he claps his hands together excitedly. “What do you say we  _ make _ ourselves something to eat instead?” 

Crowley’s other eyebrow shoots up to meet the other, and he swings his feet over the armrest, righting himself in his seat. “ _ Make _ something?” He repeats. That’s not something they’ve ever done before, not together. And it’s certainly not something Crowley’s ever done on his own either. He much prefers snapping his fingers or having someone else do the work for him.

Aziraphale nods again. “Yes,  _ make _ ,” he says. “From scratch, as they say,” he adds with a little wiggle. Then he lifts his hands and flexes his fingers in the air. “All by ourselves, no miracles.”

“No miracles,” Crowley echoes under his breath. Then he falls quiet as he contemplates.

The silence stretches on for long enough that Aziraphale’s smile starts to fall. “I think it’d be fun, don’t you?” He asks feebly— a last ditch effort to build up the idea for Crowley.

Realizing his angel sounds so upset over his lack of response, Crowley makes to speak and promptly sticks his foot in his mouth.

“Fun, angel?” He questions. “Don’t you remember what I think about fun?” 

It’s meant to be a joke— he doesn’t  _ actually _ have anything against fun. But the downward curve of Aziraphale’s lips deepens, and Crowley’s heart lurches in his chest.

“Oh, okay then—” Aziraphale starts, but Crowley’s quick to cut him off.

“Ah ah, I didn’t say  _ no _ ,” Crowley says, pulling himself up from the armchair. He closes the distance between them, and reaches out to take one of Aziraphale’s hands, soothing his thumb across Aziraphale’s knuckles. “Anything is fun if it’s with you, angel.” 

He knows he’s achingly soft when he says it, knows he’s got lovesick written all over his face. But he can’t help it, not with Aziraphale. If anyone ever had the gall to point it out to him, he’d deny deny deny, but deep down he knows that when it comes to Aziraphale he’s the world’s biggest softie.

Aziraphale’s eyes glitter and his entire expression melts into something so  _ loving _ that Crowley swears he forgets how to breathe—not that he really  _ needs _ to, that being a human function and all.

“Oh, you big sap, you,” Aziraphale says, pink cheeked and bashful. 

It still amazes Crowley that he gets to have this— this _thing _with Aziraphale. He’d been harboring it for so long that it still sometimes trips him up that he actually _can_ be affectionate with Aziraphale. And that it will be _returned_.

Crowley has Nah-rmaggedon to thank for that, really. Following the end of the Not-End-Of-Times, Crowley made the executive decision to come clean about his feelings for Aziraphale. Ever since that moment in the burning bookshop, that terrible, horrible moment where Crowley had thought he’d lost his best friend forever, the need to confess had been insurmountable. Six thousand years of loving someone, and he’d almost lost it all without ever making it known. He couldn’t go on without Aziraphale knowing. He  _ wouldn’t _ .

It had come as a bit of a shock, and yet not surprising at all when Aziraphale simply stroked Crowley’s cheek before cupping his face between his hands and delivering the most convicting declaration of love that probably made God Herself shed a tear. Crowley nearly had.

They shared a tender kiss that left Crowley feeling dizzy, and the rest, they say, is history. 

“Why don’t I just go close up the shop and we can head upstairs and get started,” Aziraphale says. 

He doesn’t wait for a response from Crowley, just tips his chin up to press a quick kiss to Crowley’s cheek, then extracts himself from the demon so he can putter over to the front door and flip the sign.

It’s Crowley’s turn to blush. He’s almost grateful Aziraphale’s too distracted to take notice.

Once the shop’s been taken care of, Aziraphale and Crowley make their way up the back staircase leading into the flat above. Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand as they ascend.

It’s not a very big space, the flat, just enough room for Aziraphale to live comfortably. But it’s not like he needs all that much room anyways. There’s a distinct homey feel to it; very warm, very cozy, very Aziraphale. It’s what one would consider cluttered, but it isn’t messy clutter. Which goes a long way in making the place feel very lived in.

Crowley's been here before, just a few times. He knows his way around, but he allows Aziraphale to take the lead and tug him into the kitchen. 

It's quite a lovely space, as well. Not sleek and chrome and pristine like Crowley’s is, but rustic with a little bit of an old-fashioned feel to it. Again, very Aziraphale. Crowley finds he quite likes it, actually. 

"So, did you have any ideas as to what we should make then?" Crowley asks.

He pointedly does not frown when Aziraphale lets go of his hand so he can putter around the refrigerator for ingredients for possible meals. Crowley also bites his tongue against pointing out that that isn't necessary because Aziraphale can simply miracle whatever ingredients they need.

"I'm afraid I hadn't thought that far ahead, my dear," Aziraphale admits with a small chuckle. "Do you have any ideas?"

A little grin curls at Crowley's mouth. With a snap of his fingers the island in the middle of the kitchen fills with everything they need to whip up a batch of Paris-1793-quality crepes.

“How about some crepes?” Crowley asks coolly, the corner of his lips quirking up knowingly. He crosses his arms over his chest and leans up against the counter. He likes to think it looks very suave. “A little birdy told me they’re a certain angel’s favorite food.” 

The look of pure wonderment and adoration that settles onto Aziraphale’s face at that warms Crowley to the core, and he has to fight the pleased flush he can feel rising to his cheeks. 

“Oh, you remembered that?” Aziraphale asks, taking a step closer. He brings a hand up to touch Crowley’s cheek. “How thoughtful of you.”

Crowley leans into the touch, reveling in it.“Of course I remember,” he replies, soft, tender. It’s the same kind of tone he used when he had to remind Aziraphale that his bookshop had burnt down. “How can I not when you risked getting your bloody head chopped off for them?” He adds teasingly. 

Aziraphale laughs, full-bellied and melodic. “But you were there to save me,” he reminds. “And buy me crepes afterwards. A true hero, you.” 

The blush flares up even more in Crowley’s cheeks, and he fights a losing battle to stave it off. Instead he rolls his eyes fondly and shakes his head. “Those were pretty spectacular crepes,” he says. “What were they, again?”

“Strawberries and cream,” Aziraphale answers happily, clapping his hands together. “They were absolutely scrummy,” he adds. Then he leans in conspiratorially. “I’d even go so far as to say they were the best meal I’ve ever had.”

Crowley grins. “What do you say we try to recreate those crepes then?”

“Oh, goodness,” Aziraphale breaths, turning wide eyes to Crowley. “I don’t know if we’ll be able to, but we can certainly try.” He flashes Crowley a smile for good measure. 

So, they make strawberries and cream crepes. Or they try to, anyways. Crowley isn’t very well-versed in the kitchen, which comes as absolutely no surprise to either of them. Aziraphale isn’t much better, though. Only marginally less of a disaster than Crowley, but not by much.

The only thing they miracle is a recipe, but even then they aren’t very good at following it. Crowley nearly dumps two and a half tablespoons of salt into the mix rather than sugar— thankfully Aziraphale catches it before he does (“my dear boy, why do we even have the salt out if we’re making sweet crepes, not savory?”). But not even a second later Aziraphale ends up adding half a teaspoon more vanilla than the recipe calls for. (“They’ll be extra sweet, then,” Aziraphale contends, flashing Crowley a sheepish smile. “Just like you, angel,” Crowley replies with such a syrupy sweetness it rivals the batter.)

Once all of the ingredients for the batter have been combined, they let it rest for a few minutes— as per the recipe’s directions.

Aziraphale takes to preparing the strawberries for the filling, running a handful beneath the faucet before beginning to carefully slice each one into thin pieces. 

Crowley doesn’t particularly trust himself to start on whipping the cream, not without Aziraphale’s watchful eye to save him from the mistakes he’s sure he’ll make. So he wordlessly lifts himself onto the countertop beside Aziraphale and watches him cut.

A silence falls between them, but it’s a comfortable one, a companionable one. Neither one speaks, but they don’t really have to. It’s something Crowley loves about them, that they don’t feel the need to fill up every second of every moment with conversation. That they can simply sit and enjoy each other’s company.

Only the rhythmic sounds of Aziraphale’s cutting and the gentle tones of Bach playing softly from the radio in the corner fill the room.

“Oh,” Aziraphale suddenly says, knife stilling in his hand. He looks up from the strawberries and a pout turns down the corners of his mouth. A furrow forms in his brow. “What happened to the Bach?” He questions. He sets the knife down and goes to reach for the knob on the radio. 

Crowley stops him before he can touch it, fingers curling around Aziraphale’s. “No, no, don’t change it,” he says. “I quite like this one.”

“Is this supposed to be more of that bebop you’re so fond of?” Aziraphale asks, mischievous smile tugging at his lips.

Crowley rolls his eyes fondly and slides off of the countertop. “ _ No _ ,” he answers. “It’s not bebop. Just listen, I think you’ll like this one, too.”

_ L - is for the way you look at me; O - is for the only one I see; V - is very, very, extraordinary; E - is even more than anyone that you adore _

“Oh,” Aziraphale repeats, sounding pleasantly surprised. He turns to Crowley and that surprise is mirrored in his features. “It… it is quite a lovely song.”

“Isn’t it? Dance with me, angel,” Crowley requests, twisting his hand in Aziraphale’s so that he’s holding it the proper way one would hold their dance partner’s hand. 

“Oh, my dear, but you know angels can’t dance,” Aziraphale protests, though he hasn’t moved out of Crowley’s space or let go of his hand.

“Ah, come on, you know I don’t care about that,” Crowley says. “Besides, it’s not as though demons are notoriously  _ good _ dancers, either. Just one dance, come on,” he insists. “Please.”

A small chuckle bubbles past Aziraphale’s lips. “ _ Please _ ?” He repeats, amusement coloring his tone. “Well, since you asked so  _ nicely _ ,” he teases before lining himself up in front of Crowley, the picture of a perfect dance partner.

Crowley lets his free arm slip around Aziraphale’s waist, his hand coming to rest against the angel’s side, fingers curling firmly yet gently over his hip. 

Aziraphale allows himself to be pulled in close to Crowley’s body, lets their corporations mold together, every line and every curve matching up like two halves of a whole.

_ LOVE is all that I can give to you, LOVE is more than just a game for two _

They move together as one, swaying along to the music. Softly, simply, nothing more than a slow movement side to side. They don’t follow any specific patterns, no steps or time counts or cues. Just letting their bodies take them around the small kitchen space.

It’s the kind of dancing one would see an absolutely timeless couple enjoy. Slow and simple, yet incredibly tender and so full of love and affection. It’s clear to anyone who watches how much the two adore each other.

And Crowley can feel it— the love and affection. It’s all around him; radiating off of Aziraphale, swelling up in himself before cascading out in waves, filling every bit of space in the room.

Crowley can feel the beat of Aziraphale’s human heart against his chest, can feel the warmth of his breath against his neck, the softness of the messy, white-blonde tufts of hair tickling his cheek as Aziraphale rests his cheek against Crowley’s shoulder. 

_ Two in LOVE can make it, take my heart and please don’t break it, LOVE, was made for me and you _

Neither one of them has to say a single word right now for them both to know just how loved they are— this Crowley knows. It’s written in Aziraphale’s eyes, sparkling like the stars in the night sky. In his smile and the way every other feature softens to match it. In the reverence of his touch, the purpose of each press of each finger against Crowley’s body.

Crowley’s sure it’s mirrored in himself as well. In the way everything else in the room melts away until the only thing he can see is Aziraphale. In the way Crowley allows himself to be vulnerable, to show this softer side of himself, to indulge in it without fear of judgement or being cast away. In the way he holds Aziraphale tightly, yet with a certain fragility, because he won’t let his whole world be destroyed.

The passion they have for each other… it’s there. It’s there and it’s not going anywhere anytime soon. Anytime at all, really. Crowley has not one single doubt about that. They really were made to love each other. And here they are, together, finally. 

“You know, I think that song is quite right,” Aziraphale says, voice soft so as to not disturb the moment. The last notes of the song fade away, but they still don’t stop moving.

“How do you mean?” Crowley wonders, still holding onto Aziraphale. 

“At the end there it says ‘love is made for me and you’, and, well, I think that’s rather true,” Aziraphale explains. His eyes flicker up to meet Crowley’s, and Crowley can practically feel the warmth of his gaze melt into him. “Don’t you?”

He can’t help the utterly lovesick expression that settles across his features. “Of course I do, angel,” Crowley responds, nothing but complete and total truth behind his words.

“I do love you very much, my dear,” Azriaphale tells him, raw emotion in his tone and eyes sparkling earnestly.

“I love you, too, angel,” Crowley says back.

Then he leans down and closes that last little bit of distance between himself and his angel and presses his lips softly but firmly against Aziraphale’s.

The crepe batter ends up long forgotten, but that’s okay. They’re sweet enough for each other, anyways.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Let me know what you think with a kudos and a comment! 
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/brooklynbabybucky) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/BrklynBabyBucky)! :)


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